


first you must love it

by doomcountry



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Body Horror, Canon Asexual Character, Do Not Archive (The Magnus Archives), Other, POV Second Person, Trans Male Character, Worship, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:41:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23304796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomcountry/pseuds/doomcountry
Summary: Elias, learning.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Jonathan Sims, Elias Bouchard/the Archivist
Comments: 17
Kudos: 186





	first you must love it

And you must love it wholeheartedly—not that you would ever be capable of loving it less. You must love it perfectly, unconditionally, with your entire body and being. It deserves nothing less from you. It thrives on your love as much as it thrives upon the terror that you feed it.

You must, of course, feed it. Now that it is fully-formed, it is less choosy about the forms in which its meals come to it. Statements, when you can get your hands on them; sometimes it asks for your voice, and you provide it, with pleasure. Sometimes you feed them to it whole. You lock the door and listen from outside until the screams have stopped. When you go back inside, to clean up what’s left, it purrs, reaching out for you. You ignore the gore and the lingering stench for a while to wrap it in your arms and whisper praise to it.

You must keep it comfortable. You would lavish it with everything money could buy, and everything money couldn’t, if that was what it wanted. You had had dreams in the early stages of keeping it draped in gold and silk and family jewels like a proper idol, lazily ensconced. Suiting your Decadent tastes if nothing else. Preferably above eye level. The better to kneel and kiss its feet. Unfortunately for your fantasies it isn’t interested in anything like that. It needs only a small, dark, warm, humid space in which to build its nest—which put you off at first, but you are used to it now. Too much light hurts its eyes. You must keep track of how many it has, as they have a tendency to wander off, detach from its body and go scuttling about for things to look at. It likes when you collect them for it, and it holds still while you return them to their little burrows in its flesh. When you are done it nestles its head into your shoulder in mute thanks.

It is very important to keep it company. It clings to you when you are near enough to be clutched. You love to be loved by it, even if only in the way that the lion loves the hand that feeds it, the way the god loves the pilgrim. It enjoys your body heat, your smell. It likes to learn and relearn the information that forms you. It never seems to get tired of cataloguing. Sometimes it compels you to strip, stand still in the center of its nest—though of course it never has to ask—while it hunts over you with its hands and nose and mouth, its long hair tickling your bare flesh, its eyes levering themselves out of its skin and crawling over you with insectile legs. For hours, sometimes, until it is satisfied, humming with contentment. Then it gathers you much more intimately into its long, long arms, like a child clutching its favorite toy. You could slither out and away, but you never do. Who else has the privilege of being embraced by their god so frequently?

You keep it groomed and clean. It lies with its head in your lap while you comb through its long hair, its hand on your knee. This is when it is at its most calm. It lets you bathe it, dry it. Its mosquito-like wings buzz happily when you touch it just so, with gentleness. Its eyes squint at you with fondness. It doesn’t love you the way you love it, but it does love you. The way the captor loves the captive, the way the owner loves the pet.

When it is generous enough to offer you its body, you must accept the gift with nothing short of complete reverence. _Sex_ is such an ugly, primitive word. _Sex_ is the mindless, stupid rutting of animals in the mud. This is divine transcendence, communion. It offers you its body when it wants to thank you, because it knows how much you want it. It sits with its legs apart like the statues of gods you’ve seen, wet because it knows you like it to be wet, two fingers spreading it open like the two upheld fingers of a saint. A blessing it’s giving you. It presses its forehead into yours while you fuck into it, its eyes wide open and focused intently on you, its fingers curled around your waist. You’ll never make it come. That isn’t what this is for. This is for you, for a very short amount of time, to exist in sacred union, for it to peel you apart layer by layer with its gaze until it hits your core and you spasm and shudder inside it, your mind a tidal wave of knowing, the cosmic orgasm, your eyes rolling up into your head. And then, again, for it to hold you, petting through your hair as you shiver back into the present, its ambulatory eyes crawling slowly and curiously all over you, its legs entwined with yours. While you catch your breath and pant praise into its ear, tears prickling in your eyes at the sheer intensity of its Looking. It could swallow you in an instant, whole, but it doesn’t: merciful god. It could crack open your skull, slide its black tongue into your brain and destroy you utterly, but it doesn’t: merciful god. You have given it everything, after all—grateful god—because you love it. It took a long, long time for the man it used to be to understand this. But it understands now; it knows now.

 _First you must love me,_ it had said to you, its voice raw and heavy with compulsion, at the beginning, when the screams had stopped, when its wings were glistening wet and new, its eyes thrumming in its skin. To which, the good disciple, you knelt and said, _I do, I do, I do._

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] first you must love it](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26678845) by [mielepod (mielebit)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mielebit/pseuds/mielepod)




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